


Earned it

by nereidee (aurasama)



Series: Frictional October 2018 challenge [3]
Category: Amnesia: The Dark Descent
Genre: BDSM, Experimental, M/M, POV Second Person, Rituals, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 08:16:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16237691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurasama/pseuds/nereidee
Summary: The rituals transform Daniel in ways that are both alarming and enticing at once. 2nd person, Alexander's POV. Written for the Frictional October challenge on Tumblr, based on the prompt 'too deep'."So, this is the instrument you would play tonight. How well it fits in your hand."





	Earned it

You try to hide how badly your hands are trembling as the servants bring the prisoner and roughly tie him to the wheel. It's sloppy work – they are hardly designed for anything requiring precision – but it's good enough to give you a starting point, and you step forward as the servants are dismissed, taking their place with your jaw set. It's obvious that you are beyond exhausted; the dark circles have turned your eyes into lightless voids, the hollows of your cheeks deeper and sharper with each night that passes.  
  
One can only admire your resolve at a time like this. The pretence of bravery you wear is convincing, at least to the untrained eye. And yet, that spark of anticipation is now always there, ready to be kindled on a moment's notice.  
  
How easily it catches fire.  
  
“May I?” you ask, your voice deceptively even.  
  
“Please.”  
  
If you are hesitant, it does not show. Your hands, so skilled with pen, ink and razor, tighten the ropes with confidence, exactly as you've been taught, and no matter how the prisoner struggles the knots hold, a testimony to your handicraft. Such a devoted apprentice. One could ask for nothing more.  
  
“Remember, Daniel, that at this point you are free to choose how you wish to proceed. Administer any tools or means you'd like, as long as you pace yourself accordingly.”  
  
You nod, a sheen of sweat already making your skin glisten. “Understood.”  
  
“You may begin.”  
  
Watching how concentration transforms your face is always just as thrilling. The tools laid out on the table all have their own advantages and you pause over each one, brows drawn into a serious line. Choices, choices. Is your hand drawn to the crop and the arduous labour of its lingering caress? A thinking man's instrument, the crop; for a man who bides his time, carefully pacing each lash, counting heartbeats and drawn breaths before striking, letting the pain build up and retreat in equal measure. No, today you haven't the patience for the crop, it seems. Your fingers curl as you move on to the next suitor.  
  
The hammer seems drawn to your hand – so fitting for a carpenter's son. It takes strength to forge proper results with such an instrument, strength that you have already proven that you possess. More than strength, however, it takes an artist's eye to know when less is more to keep from ruining the canvas too much. Bones, tendons, joints; one must know exactly where they are and where they meet to know what to strike and what to leave untouched.  
  
You exhale, moving your hand further. It stops above the knife's twisted blade, hovering decisively before picking it up, discarding all else. So, this is the instrument you would play tonight. How well it fits in your hand.  
  
“There is no need to rush, Daniel. Take your time.”  
  
The cold smile of steel reflects yours perfectly. An artisan's choice, the knife. A hand that can master the paint brush can master the knife as well; lighter touches result in finer strokes, heavier touches result in bolder strokes. The blade leaves a dark, gleaming trail in its wake like flowing ink, something you lost yourself in the first time you tried it, and one has to marvel at how it draws you in again and again. It is a fickle instrument, much like the hammer.  
  
Fickle, much like yourself. Capricious like the gods of old, cruel and merciful all at once.  
  
Your fingers tighten around the hilt, hesitation vanishing from your eyes. The knife dispels the tremor of your hands and when you set to work the strokes are steady, precise, so fine and methodical that it's impossible not to hold one's breath while witnessing it. How beautiful you are like this; fingers dipped in ink, brush in your hand, with all the creative intent of God breathing life into Adam.  
  
Your chest rises and falls between cuts, careful not to disturb your instrument from its course with a poorly timed breath, and each line results in a calculated pattern, perfectly imitating what you've been taught. Blood oozes from the cuts, blurring the shapes you create, and though the prisoner trashes in his bounds as much as they allow, your concentration does not waver. Quietly, almost absent-mindedly, the words fall from your mouth in an endless litany with practised ease, every word committed to memory. It repeats on and on until the man stirs no more, his body limp and lifeless by your hand.  
  
_How beautiful you are._  
  
“Marvellous work, Daniel.”  
  
Your lips curl into a smile and your tongue licks away the speck of blood at the corner of your mouth. The knife falls on the ground unnoticed as you are pushed against the wall, fingers tightening in your hair, and the sounds that escape you between demanding kisses can only be described as poetry. Your hands, your artisan's hands always know precisely how and where to touch, and tonight, you are generous; you show no intention of keeping those talents only to yourself.  
  
“Tell me how good I was again tonight,” you say, voice dropping to nothing but a harsh whisper, just like it always does during these moments. “Reward me.”  
  
The rituals transform you in ways that both entice and alarm. Commanding, all coyness gone.  
  
“Yours could be the work of God.”  
  
The words draw a shudder of pleasure from you. Your breath grows laboured as your cravat is ripped off and the collar pulled back to expose the pale expanse of your neck, still bearing the marks of another night, and you make no effort to keep quiet as more join them. The bruises leave angry red marks that match the ones around your wrists; another keepsake of these games of leather and rope that you've grown to love so much.  
  
You sigh into the touch as exploring kisses tickle the underside of your wrist, the skin there still tender and raw. Yet it's obvious that it won't have the chance to heal before being tested once more – your patience wears thin, and the skin yearns to be broken again, as surely as your hands have broken another's skin tonight. The urge never stays sated for too long. Not with you. Not after a ritual.  
  
The look in your eyes is knowing. “Tie me up.”  
  
“Of course. You deserve it.”  
  
You've earned it.

**Author's Note:**

> This is definitely the most challenging piece I've ever written - 2nd person POV is pretty rare to see in longer works of fiction, but it has its advantages. I wanted to go for a more intimate perspective and 2nd person felt like a good choice for that. Hope you guys liked it!


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